James "Bucky" Barnes | The Winter Soldier (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
disassembles) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2015-02-27 07:38 pm
disassembles) wrote in entrancelogs2015-02-27 07:38 pm
[OPEN] underneath this skin there's a human
Who: Bucky Barnes and YOU
Where: The training room, then coffee shop.
When: Feb 28th - Mar 1st
Rating: PG-13? PTSD/hypervigilance references, etc.
Summary: Bucky is having trouble sleeping, so he finds a little distraction and loses track of time. A day in the life of your average ex-hydra murder hipster.
The Story:
Training Room
It's edging close to midnight when James heads down to the training rooms. He has a regular routine, but this isn't a part of it. As more of his memories come back, he's been dreaming more, and he finds that tiring himself out is usually the only way to get some sleep.
The problem being, of course, that he doesn't tire easily.
The room is empty when he arrives, and he wastes no time clearing space for himself and plugging his phone into the sound system. If anyone else shows up, he can deal with it then. For the moment, music fills the room.
He walks to the front of the mats and closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. As the music swells, he flows into retzev, a continuous fight with an imagined opponent. It takes him across the entire space of the training room, every movement an attack, targeted and controlled. Even as his speed increases, there's a deadly kind of grace in every movement. With the music to accompany him, it's almost like dancing.
By morning, he's tossed his shirt aside and pulled his hair up into a bun to keep it from clinging to the sweat on his neck and face. His movement is more acrobatic now, though no less controlled, punctuated by an easy flip and roll, or the silver slash of a knife from one of the sheaths strapped to his thighs. He's out of breath and the dark circles under his eyes could be bruised there, but from the look on his face, he's content.
Coffee Shop
By early afternoon, he's tired enough. He showers and changes into a shirt that's a little tight for him -- probably one of Steve's. He thinks he can make it back to his room, but he's sorely mistaken when the smell of food from inside the coffee shop hits him. Hunger seems to re-assert itself instantly in the form of his stomach trying to eat itself and/or convince him to gnaw off his remaining arm.
He ends up ordering as much food as they'll let him take. Darcy wouldn't appreciate him spooking her employees, so he tries to be charming about it. He smiles, he tells them that he's waiting on some friends. He doesn't touch any of the weapons he's concealed, not even once, not even for the voice at the back of his mind that's just a hair from panic. He shouldn't have allowed himself to deplete his resources like this, and he shouldn't let anyone stand in the way of proper asset maintenance, he should be more weary of the patrons, and on and on. He appreciates that he's too tired and hungry to care.
He piles everything up in an empty little booth. The moment he's got his back to a wall, he leans slowly, heavily against the side of the couch. His metal arm looks to be the only thing keeping his head propped up while he stares at a cheese danish, almost hopelessly, like it's not worth the energy it will take to get it all the way to his mouth.
Where: The training room, then coffee shop.
When: Feb 28th - Mar 1st
Rating: PG-13? PTSD/hypervigilance references, etc.
Summary: Bucky is having trouble sleeping, so he finds a little distraction and loses track of time. A day in the life of your average ex-hydra murder hipster.
The Story:
Training Room
It's edging close to midnight when James heads down to the training rooms. He has a regular routine, but this isn't a part of it. As more of his memories come back, he's been dreaming more, and he finds that tiring himself out is usually the only way to get some sleep.
The problem being, of course, that he doesn't tire easily.
The room is empty when he arrives, and he wastes no time clearing space for himself and plugging his phone into the sound system. If anyone else shows up, he can deal with it then. For the moment, music fills the room.
He walks to the front of the mats and closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. As the music swells, he flows into retzev, a continuous fight with an imagined opponent. It takes him across the entire space of the training room, every movement an attack, targeted and controlled. Even as his speed increases, there's a deadly kind of grace in every movement. With the music to accompany him, it's almost like dancing.
By morning, he's tossed his shirt aside and pulled his hair up into a bun to keep it from clinging to the sweat on his neck and face. His movement is more acrobatic now, though no less controlled, punctuated by an easy flip and roll, or the silver slash of a knife from one of the sheaths strapped to his thighs. He's out of breath and the dark circles under his eyes could be bruised there, but from the look on his face, he's content.
Coffee Shop
By early afternoon, he's tired enough. He showers and changes into a shirt that's a little tight for him -- probably one of Steve's. He thinks he can make it back to his room, but he's sorely mistaken when the smell of food from inside the coffee shop hits him. Hunger seems to re-assert itself instantly in the form of his stomach trying to eat itself and/or convince him to gnaw off his remaining arm.
He ends up ordering as much food as they'll let him take. Darcy wouldn't appreciate him spooking her employees, so he tries to be charming about it. He smiles, he tells them that he's waiting on some friends. He doesn't touch any of the weapons he's concealed, not even once, not even for the voice at the back of his mind that's just a hair from panic. He shouldn't have allowed himself to deplete his resources like this, and he shouldn't let anyone stand in the way of proper asset maintenance, he should be more weary of the patrons, and on and on. He appreciates that he's too tired and hungry to care.
He piles everything up in an empty little booth. The moment he's got his back to a wall, he leans slowly, heavily against the side of the couch. His metal arm looks to be the only thing keeping his head propped up while he stares at a cheese danish, almost hopelessly, like it's not worth the energy it will take to get it all the way to his mouth.
no subject
no subject
Aesthetics aren't really anything he's worried about. The arm is a weapon, and as long as it functions smoothly as such, what does it matter what it looks like? If a few particular plates at the shoulder happen to be subtly scratched and scored, it hasn't made a difference.
"What do you want for it?"
no subject
He reaches out to smack Barnes on the leg- a two-foot tall person's idea of doing a shoulder punch. Maybe if he were less exhausted, this would be less funny and more perplexing that he's fallen into such an easy camaraderie here. A brotherhood of pain and torture ain't much of a brotherhood, but it's probably all either of them really have. Beyond Steve and Quill, anyway.
"What the flark would I need? Most of the crap I'd really want, the closet's won't spit out, and it ain't gonna just drop out of the sky for you to hand off to me." He flicks a disconcertingly human-like hand. "It's on the house."
no subject
He lets Rocket hit him in the leg, recognizing the odd moment of camaraderie for what it is. He doesn't usually let people touch him but occasionally, like now, he makes an exception. Pain and torture might not be the basis for much, but it's still a hell of a thing to find someone who's scars aren't all that unlike his own. It's enough that he doesn't question too deeply when Rocket says he'll do it without some kind of payment.
"It's on the table, if you change your mind." When they finally reach the seventh floor, he lets them into his room. It's plainly, sparsely furnished. The only sign of it being lived-in is the stack of paperback westerns and raunchy magazines he never got around to getting rid of and a couple of notebooks laying open on the table, crammed with equations. There's a knife strapped under the same coffee table, and a weapons locker standing open at the foot of his bed. James gestures at the couch with a flick of his wrist and goes to pull some glasses out of the cupboard. "Sit wherever you want I guess."
no subject
He cants his head at the room, not quite what he was expecting, but he supposes a lot of that is just leftovers from whoever he was before all that. It must be nice to be able to look at who you were before and not want to rip that person to shreds- Rocket can't manage that. What he was before was so much less than he is now, which sucks. He can't even hate who he was made to be, because the alternative is unthinkable.
"Don't mind if I do." He shakes it off, choosing to climb up onto the table with the vodka tucked under his arm, so he can actually be at eye level. Being on the floor and the average chair being too low is an eternal disadvantage.
should we ease into the fade out?
It's been a long process moving back into this room. He hasn't brought anyone up here since he started using it place again. He hasn't really had a reason to. Maybe it would be more of an issue if it had been someone else, but Rocket doesn't seem to care particularly, and James is grateful for it.
He sets the glasses on the table and settles in, beckoning for the bottle. "Is this stuff gonna make you sick?"
sure!
"'Course it tastes better, but when in Hala." Not that Barnes knows where that is or would probably care to know anything about the Kree- somehow a bunch of overly superior nutjobs who think they're the purest race in the galaxy are not a bunch that he'd like to meet personally. Just a hunch.
ty for backtagging with me!
He doesn't know if his stomach can actually handle whatever the hell Rocket drinks out in space. Asgardian ale has a definite effect, so there's a pretty good chance that anything like it would be the same. Honestly, though, he doesn't really care. He's got five lives to get through here.
James raises his glass. "To getting some damn sleep."
yw <33
He raises the glass as Barnes toasts, snickering under his breath. Such an odd, haunting thing to toast to, but it's appropriate in its own way. Much like their entire... well, Rocket would hesitate to call it a friendship, having mostly been inexperienced in actually making friends, as opposed to having friendship sneak up on him, but... That's what it is. And it's comfortable. "That's somethin' I'll drink to any night."
let me know if you want me to change anything, otherwise closing up here
Still, it's not pity that makes him feel an odd kinship towards Rocket. In some ways, it's not even that they were both weapons once. It's that they're their own people now, in the aftermath, and Rocket understands what it's like to struggle with something like that -- and maybe not always succeed. James has no idea what antimatter is except that it sounds like the sort of thing no sane would ingest. He supposes he'll find out in due time.
He downs his glass like a shot of medicine rather than anything meant to be enjoyed. Maybe he can't get drunk from it, but the burn feels good. He and Rocket polish off the bottle between them, chatting about guns and intergalactic moonshine, and counter to James' earlier assumption, he falls asleep on the couch. For a blissful few hours, he doesn't dream at all.